Waking Noah

by Dave Kilgore

Waking Noah
Middle grade fiction, for readers age 8 and up. 51,067 words.

Noah Mackenzie can't remember turning twelve years old. He can't remember anything from during or prior to the two-week coma he's just come out of. Not his parents, his friends, or the auto accident that cost him his memory. As images slowly return, some help him to recall his life before the tragedy, some just raise more questions.

Chapter 1
Windshield wipers push against a heavy rain. I hear them sweeping side to side, but I can’t see them.
It’s pitch dark in my dream.
Muddled voices quarrel. Bitter. Loud. We pass under the misty glow of overhead streetlamps, one after another. I’m sitting behind the driver. Lightning splits the night, creating a blurred snapshot of two silhouettes in the front seat.
One woman.
One man.
My fists clench, my heart races, my head throbs with anger. I don’t know why.
Thunder explodes, and a blinding flash penetrates the windshield, flooding the car with white.
Then red.
Then black.

Chapter 2
My head hurts. Not like a regular headache. Not like what you get after hanging upside down from the monkey bars for too long. And not like brain freeze from eating ice cream too fast. More like . . . more like when a hand grenade explodes right behind you and takes out the back of your skull. Not that I’ve had that happen to me and would know what it feels like for real, but it’s the best description I can come up with for now.
It’s dark. Probably because my eyes are closed, but opening them feels like it would take more effort than I’m willing to give at the moment. I’m not up to moving much of anything.
Something smells funny. Mediciny. Like when I fall off my bicycle and scrape my knee and my mom rubs that stuff on my skin that makes it burn worse than when I hit the pavement.
Something is beeping. It’s playing in perfect rhythm with my heartbeat, which I can feel pounding heavy in my chest.
People are talking, but their voices are muffled. Like they’re far away or hiding under a blanket or whispering secrets to each other with their hands cupped around their mouths.
“Doctor Crawford to Room 302. Doctor Crawford. 302. Stat.”
That came through loud and clear, but nasally, like when the principal makes an announcement over the school public address system.
Someone touches my hand, and I picture my mom checking on me like she sometimes does, making sure I’m okay. I always am. She worries too much.
After concentrating for a long minute, I work my eyes open and catch a blurry vision of some lady I’ve never seen before. She’s staring at me. Hard. I close my eyes again, and the image I had of my mom is now gone. Not gone gone, like it’s been completely erased. More like it’s almost there, but just out of reach. I try to picture her again, but it just makes my head hurt worse.
“Noah,” the lady says. “Look at me. Open your eyes.”
I open my eyes and look around, trying not to move my head, which is still aching. People in white coats stand on each side of me, pushing buttons and turning knobs on machines that are connected to my body with wires and tubes and needles and tape.
“Can you hear me, baby? Noah, squeeze my hand if you can hear me,” she says.
I hear her, but I don’t squeeze. I don’t have the strength. I open my mouth to speak, but it’s difficult. There’s no air inside me. An invisible elephant must be sitting on my chest. I want this pain in my head to go away. I want to go back to sleep.

217 pages, Kindle Edition

Published August 24, 2024

About the author

Dave Kilgore was born in 1958 in Detroit, Michigan, and is an actor, pianist, film composer, music playwright, author, and lover of all the arts. His career spans decades in music, theatre, and film, and has garnered him numerous awards. He's written books of monologues and scenes for young actors, a book of flash fiction, and is currently working on multiple novels and audiobooks. Dave still likes to think he's in his twenties. His favorite quote is, "Luck favors the prepared."